


You're nose has the right size

by NoMercyy



Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Holmecest - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sentimental Mycroft, Siblings, sentiment is a chemical defect also found in mycroft, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:50:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoMercyy/pseuds/NoMercyy
Summary: Sherlock finds a letter that Mycroft must've written earlier.He's angry.(Has a plottwist, please don't think too bad of Mycroft, it'll make sense in the end... hopefully :D)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, there'll be a plottwist. I'd never dare to write such harsh things about poor baby Mycroft! ;)  
> I'm sorry for language mistakes, my mother tongue is German. I hope this won't disturb you too much! <3

_**I'm great.** _

_I am the British Government after all, am I not?_

_I am great and I am powerful and I am the smart one._

_**I don't need Sherlock**. I don't need any person like Sherlock. He's simply overrated anyway. I can do without him. He's the one who needs me, not the other way arround. Sherlock is only a... a junkie, a dosser (if it wasn't for the money I provide him), a person who'll never reach the standards I reached. He is the sociopath that everyone confuses with a psychopath for a reason. He's the coward that rewrites his memories (with me to take care of the mental-checks as extra work) while I have to sort everything out. All the stuff with Eurus, all the lies, Mummy._

_Oh, and of course the British Government. And the British Secret Service. And the CIA on freeland basis._

_That's **me** who does these things. It's me, who protects the people from wars, not Sherlock, who only protects them from a few killers. It's me. I can do without him. I don't need Sherlock Holmes._

_Also, I am not fat. A bit fluffy perhaps. I'm not fat. I'm not. I'm not fat. Not fat. **I'm not ugly**. My nose has just the right size. I'm just as pretty as necessary._

_And Mummy always knew I was great. She wasn't the one that preferred Sherlock. Sherlock never was her favorite son and still is not today. She loves me just as much and so does father. I'm just making up ridiculous stuff in my imagination. They love me. Why wouldn't they?_

_And I'll find a friend that is just as good as John is for Sherlock. And if I won't, well, that won't be a problem because I can do without them. Caring is not an advantage and I don't need a friend anyway._

_I am great._

Sherlock read through the page with loathing. It was disgusting, the way Mycroft wrote about himself, how great he was as the British Government, how important and how much better than everyone else. There were a few stains covering the page, but Sherlock had no problem reading the smudgy, blurred letters anyway. _„Writes disgusting stuff like **that** and can't keep it out of the rain. Stupid.“_ , Sherlock thought snorty. Part of him wished he'd never started, never picked the small white sheet up. Up, from the dark wooden desk, which stood in the middle of Mycroft's room, in front of his older brothers bookshelfs.

Mycroft himself wasn't in the room. He was in the kitchen and since he'd never leave his private stuff open on his desk, he must've left in a hurry.

 _„Probably to get himself some more cake.“_ , Sherlock thought scoffingly, with a glance to the line that said _„Also, I am not fat. A bit fluffy perhaps. I'm not fat. I'm not. I'm not fat. Not fat.“_ The consulting detective didn't finish reading yet (part of him didn't want to anyway, for he was still feeling uneasy about the paper's content), but he knew Mycroft would be back in less than a minute, so he let the small piece disappear in his sleeve. It was wet still. Some parts of it - where ink and rain must've touched- were cold at his skin.

It was then, when Mycroft came back.

His steps were audible on the threshold, graceful as always. With his suit and the umbrella one could've even considered him to be elegant. Sometimes Sherlock caught himself trying to catch a glance on those long fingers, especially when the elder Holmes wore his black gloves or when he was writing. The detective had always been fascinated by the way Mycroft hold the pen between his fingertips as if it was a-

„Hello, brother mine“, the familiar voice greeted, pulling him out of his reveries. Mycroft wore a tight smile that both of them already got used to. Usually Sherlock would've called this sort of smile an almost geniune sign of affection towards him, but since he read what Mycroft had written he only felt sick at the sight of it.

 _„'Brother mine'. He wants to play that game? He gets that game“_ , the younger brother thought. Anger filled his veins.

„Oh, hello Mycroft“, he said, his deep smooth voice charming as always, but not too much.

„You sound surprised, Sherlock. But aren't you the one that wanted to see me? Certainly-“, the man in suit pointed to his desk „this is my room and my house. You're the visitor. Clearly you expected to find me here.“

„Of course.“, Sherlock answerd sober.

„Then what is it that you want? Did you only want to visit? I'm not used to outbursts of brotherly compassion.“ Mycrofts lips curled into a slightly warmer smile.

„No. I just wanted to ask...“, Sherlock paused. _„What was it again?“_   It took him half a second to remember the exact words.

 _„Oh, and of course the British Government. And the British Secret Service. And the CIA on freeland basis._ “ and _„I'm not ugly. My nose has just the right size. I'm just as pretty as necessary.“_ and _„And Mummy always knew I was great. She wasn't the one that preferred Sherlock. Sherlock never was her favorite son and still is not today.“_.

„I just wanted to ask you how it's going! You know, with all your British Government, British Secret Service, CIA stuff.“ Sherlock observed Mycrofts reactions carefully. Mycroft couldn't suspect him of reading the paper yet, but his eyes couldn't hide his surprise.

„It's going just fine...", Myroft hesistated for a moment, not knowing whether his brother was actually interessted in his well-being and his work or rather trying something else that Mycroft couldn't see coming yet. Perhaps Sherlock only wanted to have some casual talk before asking his brother for an unpleasant thing, a favor. His behavior was suspicious, howsoever. "It's always a bit hard. Tomorrow I'll meet the delegation of France and then there is this little thing with Germany...“, he said, looking a bit tired at once.

„You know what, Mycroft?“, Sherlock changed the topic. It was a rhetorical question.

„What is it, brother dear?“, answered his brother nonetheless. It was then, when a wide smile crept over Sherlock's face.

„You're pretty, Mycroft. You're nose has just the right size!“

Mycroft froze.

„Wha-?“

„And I'm so jealous! I always wanted to be Mummys favorite, but I never was. She loved both of us and so did father. She never preferred me!“

Suddenly Mycroft skin was as pale as the wall behind them. The older Holmes' hands were shaking. He dropped his umbrella.

„Sherlock. Give that back to me. You don't understand.“ Somehow he managed to keep his voice calm and smooth, while it clearly carried amounts of anxiety with him.

 _„Anxiety... Emotion.“_ , Sherlock realised and finally he actually **did** understand.

 

 

 

The stains on the paper had never been caused by rain.

  **They had been caused by Mycroft Holmes own tears.**

 

He never intended to write down his thoughts, Mycroft was only trying to convince himself that his own words were true. But the truth was – and now both of them knew – that Mycroft Holmes thought of himself as fat and ugly, as the second choice as a son, as worthless in job and as a person.

And he cared. Cared too much.

And all for Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, perhaps Mycroft would never behave as emotional as that, but even a sociopath (a high-functioning one :D) has to get his strength and motivation from somewhere, right? I though about that... and I don't know, this small little oneshot came to my mind.  
> I'd love feedback and always appreciate correction!  
> Maybe I'll make a series of this, because I feel like Mycroft and Sherlock need to talk (and kiss xD), but I don't know yet. Let me know whether anyone would read it.


	2. Questions and deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at writing these. Gonna be unsatisfying, so there'll be a third chapter. I appreciate any kind of correction (English is not my mother tongue) and of course, all kinds of comments are welcome! <3

“Sherlock.“, Mycroft repeated.

When Sherlock thought about it, he noticed that his brothers eyes were... _blunt_. He had seen those eyes before, many times, though never in the face of his brother, instead in the pale faces of the Dead. He'd seen them in the morgue, when Molly talked about how they died. He'd seen them on corpses Lestrade had brought him. He'd seen them everywhere.

_“Sherlock?“, Molly said and gave him an excited smile. "You'll like the next one!“_

_The consulting detective could catch a glimps of pride in the eyes of the woman._

_„Died in a street fight. Someone smashed his head against a wall and stabbed him with a knife in kidneys and lungs. They must've thought he was dead and left him, because he almost made it to the next hospital, leaving a trail of blood on the streets.“, she paused and opened the cupboard to get the whip before she continued. “Yep,it's a pity, really. Now someone has to clean the mess up and he's dead anyway.“_

_„Oh“, murmured Sherlock when he took a closer look at the corpse's head. It was pretty damaged, just as Molly had predicted. „Not only kidneys and lungs, Molly. There must've been something else as well. What caused the early death was-“, he smiled his emotionless smile of victory. “-suffocating. He had blood in his lungs, obviously. He smothered because of his own blood. A painful death, I suppose.“_

_„I'm sure it is. Slow and painful. You can see it in their eyes, when it's like that. Their eyes are always blunt.“, Molly mentioned casually, as she reached for the whip._

Sherlock couldn't get the image out of his mind. Mycroft's eyes've never been anything but calm, intelligent, cold orbs. A bit dead perhaps, but never _blunt_. The memories hit him at once.

_“What are you drawing, Sherlock?“, his older brother asked, sitting down on the chair next to the small boy._

_“Our family“, he answered and smiled his childish smile._

_“I see. There's Mummy and Daddy, Redbeard and you. But I'm missing, am I not?“, the younger version of Mycroft stated._

_„Don't be like that, My. I didn't finish it yet.“ The light fell on Sherlock's dark curls and made them seem a tiny little bit brighter. “Give me the green pencil, My.“, he demanded._

_“No. I won't to all the work for you, brother mine“, Mycroft leaned back in the pillows of the chair._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, grimaced and reached for the pencil himself. When the drawing was almost finished, he looked up to his brother, smirking. “And now take a loooong glance at the big, fat belly I'm gonna draw for you.“_

_It really was a big belly of green color. Mycroft sighed. He knew he loved cake and so did his stomach, but did Sherlock seriously need to get on his nerves with that, over and over again?_

_“And here comes the face!“, Sherlock added quickly. “An oversized nose, thin lips, a round, round face and the eyes...“, he paused and turned around to take a look at his brother's eyes. “Well, I do like you're eyes, though, Mycroft. They fit you and your mind.“, he said and part of Mycroft knew this was Sherlocks odd way to give him a compliment._

_“Thanks.“_

“I think we might need to talk“, Sherlock said, looking directly into Mycroft's face. It wasn't as round as it had been back when they were children, back when Sherlock had been working on the drawing. Growing up Mycroft had become more... _Mycroft-like_. The man certainly lived posh, but defnitely not too posh, working hard and effective. While he still loved his cake, he wasn't fat the slightest and the way he walked was – and Sherlock couldn't help but notice it over and over again – elegant. Mycroft was all suits and legs and umbrellas. Had Sherlock been someone else but Sherlock he might have had more admiration for his brother in store than he actually had.

“I might not want to talk, Sherlock“

“If that's the case let me correct myself. I didn't mean 'We might need to talk', but 'We need to talk'. _Urgently_.“

First Mycroft wanted to block further conversation with his younger brother, turn around and disappear as fast as possible. He needed some time alone, some time to think, some time to collect himself again. How could he explain all this to Sherlock? He didn't want to. He was sure Sherlock wouldn't understand in the first place and also he was afraid of his reaction. What should he say? Sherlock usually knew a lie when he heard one, but the firstborn Holmes couldn't possibly tell the truth. Wasn't there something in his brilliant mind palace that could get him out of this damned situation?

“Go on then. Ask whatever you want to ask. Make your deductions, Sherlock.“

“You're having a hard time?“, it was intended to sound like a fact, but it was rather a question than anything else.

“Oh, define 'hard', brother dear. Not very delightful? Yes. Unpleasant? Yes. Impossible? No.“

“Fine. Tell me Mycroft, do you have something like a friend or anything?“

“Do you mean whether there are people who work for me? Yes. There's Anthea, the cook, the gardener, other people. I do have social interaction – not that I needed any. I talk more than you do. To the delegations, the politicians, important persons I work with. Please don't forget that being diplomatic is my job.“

“You know exactly what I meant. Do you have someone to talk to? About problems or perhaps _sentiment_?“

A small forced laugh escaped Mycrofts throat. "Sentiment? I told you, caring is not-“, he trailed of and Sherlock decided it was the appropriate time for a few deductions.

“I have five ideas... No. Two ideas, to be more accurate.“

“Yes?“

“In the first one you're an arse. Utterly. You're awful, a person Mummy would despise. Selfish, self-centered, entirely stupid and that's why you wrote **this** down. And why would you write it down in the first place? - Because you like reading how awesome you are. Also, you're stupid, which would explain a lot. Or perhaps the letter was some kind of diary of yours. Well, the second deduction one could make is that you suffer. You suffer from self-loathing, you don't believe your own words, that's why you write them down.“, Sherlock paused, searching for some sort of reaction in his brother's face. “If that's so, you must've some awful complexes, regarding the _'Mummy loves both of us'_ part. Oh, and of course, you must be sentimental, which isn't your style.“

Mycroft nodded, not as a person who said 'Yeah, you're right with the second deduction', but as a person who said 'These are possible deductions. Now which one is the right one?'.

The younger brother shrugged at the unspoken question. “Both of these explainations don't sound like you.“

“Oh, I do hope so“, Mycroft said, a tiny uncertain smirk on his lips. “Even though I have to admit that one of your deductions is almost perfect. The details are missing, brother dear, that's so very unlike you. Under other circumstances I'd be disappointed, but it's better this way. And no, I don't suffer from self-loathing. I'm simply realistic.“

“Details?“, Sherlock frowned. “Like the part where I 'rewrite' my memories and you take mental checks? _That_ part interessts me a lot, obvioulsy... And you _do_ suffer from self-loathing, stop being stubborn. That's my thing, not yours. It doesn't fit you.“

Mycroft ignored Sherlocks statement about self-loathing and stubborness.

“Trust me – or rather trust your former self - it's a story better forgotten. It's only a small childhood memory anyway, one that disturbed you very much and you chose to get rid of it. That's all. Perhaps we'll discuss it later, but this is not the right place, nor the right time to dwell on childhood.“ He seemed concerned.

Suddenly there was something else that distracted Sherlock. Something he'd seen, but not _seen_.

“Oh.“

Silence.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. He picked up the umbrella, which was still resting on the ground, as if that would change the situation he'd gotten himself into. Only because he hadn't had enough time to cover up the stupid letter! Why hadn't he put it away before?

Why did he have to _cry_?

The answer was rather obvious and since Sherlock was still staring at the wall behind Mycroft as if someone stood there and talked to him, he knew his secret had revealed itself to the genius' mind as well.

“One last question.“, the younger brother demanded.

“Is that necessary?“, Mycroft held back an annoyed groan. Sherlock had the answer, why did he continue to torture him like that?

“It is.“

“Hurry up, if that's so.“, he hissed.

Sherlock took a few steps closer to his brother, who didn't want to seem weak when taking a step back, so he stayed where he was, observing Sherlocks every move carefully. He could smell the scent of his brother's shampoo and almost felt his breath on his own cold skin. It took him all of his willpower not to try to catch another glance at those full, pretty lips that Sherlock posessed and instead to stare into his brothers eyes. Eyes, that hunted him in his dreams, blue and cold and beautiful as they were.

“Mycroft, tell me- “, the consulting detective started, taking another step, so that their wrists touched slightly. He leaned into Mycroft, his face hovering only mere inches above his neck. When Sherlocks lips almost touched Mycrofts throat and he saw the goosebumps on the silky smooth skin, he whispered _“Do you love me?“_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dsanhxfhukldhlaaweafxjakfsjx I really do suck at this


End file.
